


minding rites

by TheResurrectionist



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bar Room Brawl, Batfamily (DCU), Drinking & Talking, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Growing Old Together, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Older Batfam, Sibling Bonding, Tequila, past major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:07:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24079489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheResurrectionist/pseuds/TheResurrectionist
Summary: “Iactuallydied,” Jason interjected, raising his eyebrows. “So I win the scar competition.”“You don’t actually have any scars from that, though,” Dick pointed out, gesturing with his water glass. “The pit healed all of them.”“I haveemotionalscars.”Tim rolled his eyes. “Oh, join the fucking club.”(inside an old, hole-in-the-wall dive bar somewhere in Kansas, the batkids compare scars)
Relationships: Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Damian Wayne
Comments: 25
Kudos: 755





	minding rites

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to audreycritter and batwayneman for letting me yell about this idea. hope y'all enjoy <3

November in Kansas is bleak and grey. 

The lush, green fields of summer had turned, bleeding into crooked, slushed-in lots of straw and dead stalks. Cold ground, bleak soil. 

_Dead,_ Dick thought, hands tightening on the steering wheel. If it weren’t for the road signs, glaring green against the piles of snow, he wouldn’t have recognized the outskirts of Smallville. 

“Do they even _salt_ these roads?” 

Tim broke the silence, struggling to keep his voice even. The attempt at conversation fell short; Dick admired him for it anyway. 

“I mean, it’s almost December.”

Next to Tim, Damian was glassy-eyed. He’d undone his tie, looking so painfully like Bruce, he had to lower his gaze from the rearview. 

“Take the next left,” Jason said, leaning back into the passenger seat. Dick nodded, flicking on the turn signal. He didn’t ask where they were going. 

“Salt’s bad for the environment, sure,” Tim continued, pulling at the collar of his shirt. Dick kept an eye on him in the mirror, easing on the brakes. “But so is crashing and dying, right?”

Damian exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Shut up, Drake.”

“I’m just trying to make conversation--”

“And failing spectacularly,” Damian interrupted, “Shut _up_ already.”

Tim sat back, face pale. Dick looked at Jason, but the other man was watching the road, finger tapping against his knee. There was grey in the stubble at his jaw. More than there’d been the last time Dick had seen him. 

They pulled into a crumbling parking lot, and Dick followed Jason’s half-signed directions, sliding into a spot near the back. The engine shut off with a soft _beep_ , detecting the lack of movement. 

Nobody in the car moved. 

“Helluva wake,” Jason grunted, reaching for the door handle. “I need a cigarette.”

Dick waited until Tim and Damian got the memo, climbing out of the driver’s side door with more stiffness than he’d had in years. Up against the bar’s entryway, Jason was leaning over a cigarette, lighting it in cupped hands. 

“Clark suggested it,” Dick told Tim, before the other man could ask. “Said they have a good drink special on Sundays.”

 _And what else, frankly,_ he thought to himself, _do you do after a funeral except drink?_

Ma Kent had offered beds, a warm hug, and even a few fingers of whiskey. She’d begged them to stay, hours after the wake had ended, when the Justice League members had filtered away in innocuous clothes and even more forgettable cars, holding umbrellas up against the storm in the hopes of staying dry. 

Clark had noticed the tension in them upon their arrival, ever-present since the last shovel-full of dirt had hit Bruce Wayne’s coffin. 

Ma Kent’s house had been a touchstone, unchanged, even in the haze of grief. He’d been led by the elbow into a kitchen that smelled like home and warmed what it could inside him. 

But it wasn’t how the Wayne family mourned. That much was clear. 

Clark had shepherded them to the door, a lukewarm smile begging away attention from the line of grief in his shoulders. He’d shaken their hands and given Jason directions, reminding them to come back in the morning for casserole. 

Dick stared up at the neon sign: _Joe’s Bar and Grille_ flickered in the low light. The _r_ in “Bar” was missing; it probably had been for years. 

“I don’t want food,” Damian said. 

Behind him, Tim shrugged into his jacket. “I don’t think we’re eating.”

“Fine.”

Dick shooed them toward the door, passing Jason. The other man nodded, exhaling smoke over his shoulder. _Be inside in a few,_ that look said. _Get me something._

He pushed through the grimy storm door, holding it open for Tim and Damian. Inside, the bar was dimly-lit, mostly empty, save for a pair of older men in the corner, nursing Millers over a deck of cards. 

At the bar, a grizzled woman twisted a dirty rag, nodding at them. 

“What can I get you boys?”

Dick sat on the cracked barstool. The woman set paper coasters on the water-stained bar. 

“What’s on tap?” Tim asked. 

“Miller. Sam Adams. We got cans of Busch light, too.”

Dick glanced at the “specials” chalkboard. 

_Mystery shots, 1$. Pizzas 5$. CASH ONLY._

“I’ll take a Miller and one of the mystery shots, please.” He said, flashing her a tepid smile. Jason would choke whatever it was down, and probably order a second. 

The bartender nodded, turning to Tim. “You, hon?”

“Um...what gin do you have?”

“We’re outta gin,” she replied. “I got Ketel One.” 

“Great,” Tim said, looking less than enthused. “I’ll take a vodka rocks, please.”

Damian shook his head. “Nothing for me, please.”

“Alright, hon.” 

She set about making their drinks, taking her time. Jason entered the bar, accompanied by a halo of smoke. He had an unlit cigarette in his mouth. 

“Can’t smoke that in here, hon,” the bartender said, looking stern over a grimy rocks glass. 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Jason said, flashing a grin, “It’s a metaphor.”

She frowned at the endearment, then shrugged. A sad looking vodka rocks was set in front of Tim a moment later, complete with a limp lemon wedge. 

“Three fifty, hon.”

Dick placed a twenty on the bar, feeling numb. “I got them,” he said, nodding at Tim and Jason. 

“Mhmm.”

No one spoke. Bob Seger filtered in through a speaker behind the bar, lodging the establishment a good five decades in the past. 

Jason snorted when the mystery shot was set in front of him, picking up the plastic shot glass and examining it in the low light. He plucked the cigarette out of his mouth, setting it behind his ear. 

“Richard,” he said, “You know me so well.”

Dick grimaced as he threw the shot back, nodding his thanks as the bartender set his beer down on the coaster. 

Jason wiped his mouth, handing the shot glass back across the bar. 

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” 

“Pat.” 

“Thanks, Pat.” 

Pat left them alone, disappearing into a door marked _kitchen_ in fading red paint. Three seats down, Damian looked miserable. Tim wasn’t much better, nursing his drink with a kind of resignation that hit Dick like a sucker punch. 

He almost turned around, ready to send Bruce a questioning look: _Hey, the birds are kinda down. Ideas?_

But Bruce wasn’t there. It was just Jason, staring dully at the rings on the bar. Listening to _Against The Wind_ on a radio set older than God. 

He took a sip from his beer, ignoring the tears that threatened. He’d remained blank-faced during the funeral, and even into the wake. It hadn’t been hard, then, to keep up the mask. 

Dick took a breath, and took the plunge:

“I miss him.”

Tim raised his head from his drink, looking older than thirty. 

“Yeah,” he cleared his throat, grimacing. “Yeah, I do, too.”

Damian was silent, holding back whatever retort he was thinking in favor of staring at the radio. After a moment, Jason let out a long sigh. 

“I’m not doing this sober,” he said, glancing at the kitchen door. He turned to Dick. “You got more cash?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

* * *

Pat gave Jason a strange look when he ordered eight tequila shots, but said nothing. She pulled a dusty bottle of Jose Cuervo from below the bar and set out eight plastic shot glasses, watching them the whole time she was pouring. 

“You want training wheels?” she asked when she was done. 

“What?” Jason said. 

“Salt and lime.” 

Damian frowned, pushing his glasses away. “This smells disgusting, Todd.”

“It’s supposed to,” Jason said, cutting him a look. He turned back to Pat with a smile. “Sure, why not?”

Pat returned with a handful of lime wedges, setting them on a napkin. She plopped a salt shaker on the bartop and looked at Dick. 

“Twenty three, hon.”

Dick paid. Jason picked up his first shot, holding it up. 

“C’mon,” he said, waiting until Tim, Damian, and Dick had joined him. “We’re toasting.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Dick admitted, after a pause. Jason nodded. 

“Doesn’t need to be perfect. I’ll do the first one,” he held his shot glass up to Dick’s, “To the old man. May he rest in fucking peace.”

“Amen,” Tim said, and bit down on a lime. 

Dick glanced at the salt, then took his shot and chased it with a wedge. Jason threw the shot back without either, then stared at Damian, who was still looking at his glass. 

“C’mon, little D. It’s bad luck not to take it once you toast.” 

Damian narrowed his eyes, then sipped the shot haltingly. Jason waited until the tequila was gone, then clapped his hands. 

“Who’s doing the next one?"

* * *

Jason managed to get three more shots into the group before Pat cut them off and handed out water, staring knowingly at the car in the parking lot outside. For once in his life, Dick didn’t care; he’d sleep at the bar if she let them. He’d walk up the road until he found a motel; it didn’t _matter_. 

Tim and Damian opened up by the fourth shot, arguing over an old patrol story in pathetically transparent code words. Pat eyed their shoving and playfighting nervously, hovering on the other end of the bar, presumably by the phone. 

“--wasn’t a sprain. I actually _broke my leg_ ,” Tim was saying, laughing at Damian’s disbelieving expression. “Don’t you remember B carrying me home? I had six pins in it, the scar is still _massive.”_

“I know Father carried you, but I assumed it was because you were a--a--” Damian hiccuped, cutting himself off, “--a _weakling--”_

Jason snorted, sending Dick a _look_. Tim swatted at Damian and missed, slapping the bar. 

“Knock it off,” Pat said, from down the bar. “You break it, you buy it, boys.”

Tim grinned at her, dopey in the low lights. “Not a problem, ma’am.”

“Mhmm.” Pat said, disappearing back into the kitchen. 

Damian crossed his arms, almost knocking over his water glass. 

“Well, it wouldn’t compare to the scar I got from Killer Croc,” he said proudly, “When Father opened up my suit, you could see intestines. I almost died.”

Jason inhaled. Tim made a low _whoop_ , grinning at Damian. 

“Oh no. You SAID it. You said the _word!”_

“I _actually_ died,” Jason interjected, raising his eyebrows. “So I win the scar competition.” 

“You don’t actually have any scars from that, though,” Dick pointed out, gesturing with his water glass. “The pit healed all of them.”

“I have _emotional_ scars.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Oh, join the fucking club.”

Damian giggled. Jason frowned, turning to Dick for assistance. 

“Don’t look at me,” he told the other man, “I have more scars than all of you.”

“Lies,” Damian said. “Pennyworth had perfect stitching, you shouldn’t have scarred much.”

“ _Alfred,_ ” Tim said, his expression crumbling. He put a hand over his eyes, ducking his head. 

Dick bit his lip. After a moment, to his surprise, Damian reached out, letting Tim rest his head on his shoulder. 

“I miss Pennyworth too,” he said softly, “We all do, Drake.”

Pat stepped out of the kitchen, saw Tim crying on Damian’s shoulder, and immediately turned around and went back inside. 

“Getting old fucking _sucks_ ,” Jason said, his voice harsh. Dick nodded, not knowing what else to say. 

Damian was crying a little now, too. Tim’s sobs had quieted, but he let the other man stay on his shoulder anyway, patting his back lightly. 

“Imagine being Clark,” Dick said. Jason looked stricken. “He’s going to have to watch all of us die.”

“Knock it off,” Jason said, sending him a pointed look. “I don’t want to talk about that kind of shit tonight.”

Dick felt something hot rise in his chest, and pushed away from the stool. “What if I do?” he asked, blood pumping in his ears. 

Jason narrowed his eyes. He stood, coming up just a little shorter than Dick. 

“ _Sit down_ ,” he growled, “and drink some fucking water.”

Dick shoved him. Jason reeled back on his heels, expression darkening. The punch, when it came, was hot and sharp against his left cheek, sending him sprawling across the bar floor. 

“Stop!” Tim cried, somewhere above him. “Fucking _stop it!”_

Dick was on his feet in a flash, wavering slightly. He caught Jason around the middle, crashing onto the floor and punching vaguely at center mass, his heart thudding in his ears. 

Jason grappled around his hits, landing a solid kick across his solar plexus. Dick groaned and took advantage of his overextension, slugging him across the jaw. His knuckles burst into pain, reverberating from a hit on solid bone. 

“STOP!” Damian yelled, grabbing Dick’s shoulder. “Stop!” 

He shoved him off, grabbing for Jason’s throat. The other man bucked underneath him, kneeing him in the groin. Dick groaned through it and tightened his hands, feeling Jason’s throat working in between his fingers. 

When he opened his eyes, Jason was looking up at him, eyes bulging. _Happy now?_ that look said. _Are you fucking pleased, Richard?_

Dick let him go with a gasp, falling across his chest. The fire and anger drained from his body, leaving him cold and shaking against Jason. He was crying, he realized belatedly. 

“m’sorry,” he mumbled into Jason’s shirt, holding onto the fabric like it was a lifeline, “m’so fucking sorry, Jay--”

Jason’s hand quieted him, smoothing the hair on the back of his head. Above him, he could vaguely hear Tim talking Pat out of calling the cops, spinning a tale about medications and gossip gone wrong. 

“You’re fine,” Jason croaked, shushing him. He felt along his jaw gingerly, wincing. “The hell did we get so old?”

“Too old to have a bar fight?” Dick joked. 

“Nah, you’re never too old for that,” Jason said. He felt his teeth with his tongue. “Well, they’re all there. No harm, no foul, right?”

Dick sat up, and flicked a glance at his neck. The bright red imprint of his hands was vivid in the low light. “I’m sorry, Jay. I’m really fucking sorry.”

“No bad blood here.” 

Jason held out his hand. Dick shook it. Together, slowly, they stood, returning to the bar. 

After a beat, Tim hesitantly offered Jason a towel full of ice. Pat glared from the other end of the bar, still hovering near the phone. 

“Well, that was fun,” Jason said, pressing the ice against his neck. “Fun family Sunday night fight.” 

Dick cringed, taking a sip of his water. It came away bloody. He’d bitten through his lip without realizing. 

“Father would be disappointed with your sparring,” Damian said, “It showed little planning or skill.”

It was almost an olive branch. Dick shared a grin with Jason. 

“Bruce never got into bar fights,” Tim said. Jason snorted, setting down his water. 

“That’s what _you_ think.” 

He chuckled at Tim’s gaping expression. Damian was laughing as Jason began the story, looking so much like a younger Bruce for a second. 

Something finally slid into place in Dick’s chest. He took a breath, feeling lighter than he’d been in days. 

“--because he’d been hiding coke in the bathroom to steal away as evidence--”

“ _What_.”

“--and then someone started banging on the door--”

“Who was it?” Damian asked, looking rapt with curiosity. Even Tim was captivated. 

Dick smiled, trading a glance with Jason. 

“Lex Luthor.”

_“No.”_

“WHAT.”

“ _No fucking way!”_

The End

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think <3


End file.
